So after I masturbated thinking about that at least fifty times, I decided to write it as a story on that site.”“And your dad read it.”“Exactl.... There was no sense in pretending it wasn’t me who wrote it. I even had my alias start with G. It was obviously me writing ... about him and me.”One part I decided to leave out of my confession to Alex was the fact that my dad also remembered the name of my online friend. He sent him a message telling him he was my dad and that he had stumbled across my. Scion of an illustrious old American family and heir to a considerable fortune, which, incidentally, he had more than doubled by having the good sense to take Axel Borman's advice, he was a trim slender man, about five feet eight, blond, blue-eyed, with a lazy indolent manner of moving and speaking which gave to strangers the impression that he was just one more of the brainless rich who had inherited their wealth and couldn't get a job as a messenger boy if he had to do it on his own. Only his. They had been hanging on the line since early morning and normal routine is by 8 pm they have been took in, folded up and put with the rest of her glorious panties. But this time it was getting later and later and no sign of them being put away so I woke my self about 1am and my heart was fluttering at the thought of them being there, I walked down the stairs fingers crossed and opened back door praying that she had forgotten about them this time. BINGO all my dreams came at once, there they. She just smiled smugly. As we entered the room, she told me in a stern voice “Sit.” I didn’t have to be told twice. She sat down next to me and removed her Sandals; she then rested her bare sweaty feet on my lap. I let out a quiet moan and tried to reposition myself. “Enjoying yourself?” she said in a smug voice. I didn’t reply but my face said it all. She giggled as she brushed her feet over my cock. “Massage,” she said sternly. “Huh,” I replied. “Don’t make me ask you again, massage my feet.
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